Chương 222: Chapter 79: The Second Captured Star

Upon ordering the driver to head straight to the main residence of House Solendra, the wagon turned toward the absolute heart of the city, following the winding course of the Ilys River. However, the urban landscape Selena expected, crammed buildings, bustling shops, did not appear.

Instead, on both banks of the river lay huge green areas, meticulously tended parks where dusaut kissed the water and paths of white gravel winded among flower beds; there were dense pompons of purple petals, others with soft and yellowish petals, others painting geometric shapes with their orange and crimson petals. Only occasionally, at certain intervals, elegant and sporadic stalls emerged, more akin to garden pavilions than shops, offering refreshments, steaming tea, books, or small open-air concerts.

On the other side of the river, the endless street of the Silk Market continued to display its colorful bustle, a strip of feverish activity that contrasted with the deliberate tranquility of this bank. Minutes later, even those stalls disappeared. The three-story buildings flanking the road gave way to even broader and more exquisite gardens, designed with an almost sacred geometry. Then, about thirty meters from the bank, that rose up. Selena held her breath. She had been wrong all this time.

It was not a castle that her eyes beheld. It had no crenellated towers, nor siege walls. It was a pyramid; a huge, imposing, perfect pyramid of limestone, whose cyclopean blocks seemed carved by forgotten giants. Its surface, under the autumn sun, gleamed with a blinding white, and at its absolute apex, a structure capped in pure gold burned like a second captured star. This is not a residence, it was a temple.

The thought struck her with the force of a revelation: in ancient times on Earth, pyramids had also been temples, bridges to the divine. This world, in its strange convergence, was no different. On both sides of the wide avenue leading to the pyramid, colossal statues lined up. They depicted the sun as a majestic bird whose feathers, carved with such mastery they seemed to vibrate, turned into flames only at the tail, a cascade of petrified fire symbolizing life-giving light and heat.

To the right of the pyramid, a massive rectangular building connected to its base by a columned gallery. Its pillars, at least twenty meters high, were of a white marble so pure that it reflected light with painful intensity, adorned with golden geometric patterns narrating, in a silent language, the history of the fields, the people, the harvests, the commerce, and the justice of dealings. It was the ducal administration, but elevated to the status of sacred art.

When they reached the monumental gates separating the public gardens from the private domain of the Solendras, the guards, impassive men in burnished steel armor gleaming like mirrors, demanded express permission. On their pauldrons was the house crest: a golden falcon, armed with a spear, over a field of blue and green waves. A symbol of martial authority, of maritime domain that spoke of ancient and absolute power. Selena opened the door and stepped down from the wagon.

She presented herself after a slight bow with a clear voice that left no room for doubt: —I am Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra, Marchioness of the Royal Court of Erabergh and Duchess under the Grand Duchy of Solendra, Lady of the Circle of Wisdom, Protector of Ancient Artifacts, Protector of the Realm's Health. I return to my home, to the home of my house and of my blood. The words tasted like shit to her after everything she had lived through, but she did not let herself be carried away.

She showed the gold ring, the symbol of her royal medical authority, which weighed on her finger like a decree. Only then, after an exchange of glances and an almost imperceptible signal from the captain of the guard, did the gates open. They escorted her on both sides, an honor and a surveillance. Upon reaching the base of the pyramid, where a great door of wrought gold with the same falcon gave access to the interior, she was received by the general of the guard of House Solendra.

The man wore armor black as polished obsidian, a somber but authoritative contrast with the white and gold of the surroundings. Selena recognized him instantly: it was Darius. The same man who, following blind orders, had killed Nyssa in Terracanto. The same person who, time ago, had made her burst with rage and strike him with all her contempt. But this time, Selena did not burst. She did not even frown. A strange calm, product of the road traveled and the truths assimilated, washed over her.

Now she understood that Darius, in his fierce loyalty and his view of the world, was also a victim. A victim of the machinery of power, of the blind obedience that this medieval world demanded and glorified. He was an instrument, as sharp and lethal as the sword hanging from his waist; blaming the instrument for the blacksmith's blow was an exercise in immaturity she could no longer afford.

She nodded slightly to the man, a gesture of professional recognition, not forgiveness, that was something else and passed by his side. While Darius looked at her with the same loyalty, he had held for her all her life, she was the woman he admired. The interior of the pyramid was a different, yet equally overwhelming revelation.

If the exterior was sacred sobriety, the interior was obscene luxury, an opulence that only reminded her of descriptions of the imperial Russian palaces: marble of exotic colors, tapestries depicting battles and myths in gold and silver threads, carpets so thick they smothered footsteps, crystal chandeliers holding hundreds of candles, a profusion of gilding that made the very air seem expensive.

The contrast with the austere exterior beauty was shocking, as if public spirituality gave way, in intimacy, to an unbridled celebration of earthly wealth. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

They led her through corridors that were art galleries, oil paintings with realism, mathematically correct perspectives of the body, others with almost photographic details of buildings, of routine commercial situations, of festivals, of the Solendras offering worship to Solendri; others were silk or paper scrolls worked with Jingdao ink and fluid brushstrokes with mainly natural motifs. When all the luxury of the gallery ended, she reached a suite of rooms that, she was informed with reverence.

Her valet, a young man with cinnamon skin, dark brown almost black hair, and thick almond-shaped brown eyes. His nose slightly curved, his lips well-defined. He said to her: —It has always belonged to you, your grace. It was the first time she had seen a person with those features in the entire kingdom; he was clearly a foreigner, but his features were not those of Jingdao despite his skin. The space was vast, with furniture carved in dark woods and crimson silk fabrics, additionally the colors of the house.

The first thing Selena requested, with an urgency springing from weeks of road dust and sweat, was a bath. The large white marble tub occupying an adjoining chamber.

She submerged herself in hot water perfumed with floral essences of Nopteira, of Velaross, of Lumiaria, others of fruits like Ficandra with its woody sweetness, and some of trees like Santalia with its environmental creaminess, washing away not only the dirt of the journey, but also the accumulated tension, the invisible blood of Scargoth, the dust of the roads, and the weight of the pyramid that now sheltered her. That day, she gave express orders: no one was to disturb her.

She only needed to sleep, and so she did. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, a black hole of physical and mental exhaustion, and did not wake until well past noon the following day, when the light of the autumnal zenith filtered through the high windows of her room, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the still air and with the scent of opulence of the place. Upon opening her eyes, she knew with absolute certainty that the moment had arrived.

The moment of truth, one that no longer had to do with Scargoth, nor the Cabal, but her own. A tingle of pure emotion, an anticipation running down her spine like an electric shock, made her hands tremble. There, in the heart of her "family's" power, with Samira waiting for her somewhere in this city, she was about to unravel the last threads of the mystery that had brought her to this world. She sighed deeply once more; she had to face something she hated so much, before anything else there was protocol.

The noble, useless, and unnecessary pomp. She had canceled the massive welcome party with her request, but she could not evade the formal audience: being received in the grand duke's main hall by a delegation of the lesser and middle nobility, and the few high ranks present under Valerius's domain. A tedious procedure, a ballet of bows and hollow phrases.

However, amidst all that farce, there was one thing, a single one, that genuinely appealed to her, that awakened in her a tender and melancholic curiosity: meeting the little heiress duchess. Her niece. Valerius's daughter. The girl bearing the name of the original Isabella's mother: Iris. Seeing her face, perhaps finding in it a reflection of the woman she had been, or simply meeting the innocent who, without knowing it, was the future of this monumental house and all the weight it entailed.

That, at least, would make tolerable the theater about to begin. The silk dress, a creation in emerald green and bone white, fell over her figure like a river of ice water and clouds. The maidservants, whose hands were expert brushes, had braided her brown hair into an elaborate low crown, letting a few strands escape to frame her face. The necklaces, fine gold chains interwoven with small emeralds that looked like drops of solidified forest, sparkled with every beat of her heart.

The bracelets, simpler but of flawless design, jingled with a soft, metallic music. The heels, low and stable, were no longer the torture devices of the past; after months of training balance on beams and muddy paths under Valerian's mocking gaze, every step she took was firm, silent, an assertion of control amid the ornamental display.

The doors, high as cathedral portals, were of white lacquered wood, with frames and reliefs gilded in gold that narrated, in a mute language of scrolls and stylized figures, the divine ancestry of Solendri. Upon opening with a solemn whisper, they did not creak; their movement was as smooth as the sliding of an iceberg. What was revealed on the other side tore from her, despite everything, an almost imperceptible blink of astonishment.

The hall was a perfect dome, a half sphere of white stone so pure it seemed carved from solidified light. An engineering of mirrors arranged in concentric rings at the base of the apex captured the midday sunlight coming through a central oculus and decomposed it, multiplied it, diffused it into a uniform, diaphanous, and cold glow bathing every inch of the space.

It was a light that spared no shadows, revealing every thread of the crimson silk tapestries embroidered with platinum threads, every mother-of-pearl inlay on the marble floor, every detail of the frescoes covering the walls: scenes of House Solendra, from mythical founders taming the waves to merchants signing treaties under the watchful eye of the solar falcon. At the end of the long night-blue velvet carpet, extending like a path over the sea of marble, was the throne.

It was a low stepped platform upon which rested two chairs of carved ebony with the falcon of Solendra. In them, seated with the posture of those born to be observed, were Valerius and his wife. Valerius Theronius de Solendra was, as always, a figure who commanded by presence rather than height. He wore a state robe of immaculate white silk, over which a crimson velvet cloak, lined with ermine, fell in majestic folds from his shoulders.

His face, marked by fierce intelligence and the weight of command, lit up with a genuine, warm smile. Beside him, the woman was his perfect counterpoint. Of classic Erabergh features, brown hair gathered in a severe yet elegant bun, calm honey-colored eyes, porcelain skin, her look lacked the calculating coldness of so many ladies of the court. She was serene, kind, and observed Selena with an open curiosity filled with respect. The moment had finally arrived.

With her pulse pounding in her ears and her hand suspended over her exquisite dress, she knew there was no more room for escape; she had to face what she had avoided for more than a year. Every misstep, every detour, and every accumulated silence had led her inevitably to this threshold. The air felt denser, heavy with ancient dust and buried memories.

She breathed deeply, gathering the little patience she had left after so many truths, aware that it was time to cross that final frontier and know, once and for all, the true heart of her house.